


Something More

by HelplessDaydreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sherlock, Cussing, Drabble, F/M, Protective Sherlock, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7714405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelplessDaydreams/pseuds/HelplessDaydreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is in lethal trouble, Y/N has to break a promise and risk her life to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CharismaticSociopath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticSociopath/gifts).



> This story was based off prompt #10 on this list: http://imagines--assemble.tumblr.com/post/146483556310/reader-insert-prompt-list
> 
> This story was written thanks to a request from CharismaticSociopath.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! It turned out a bit longer than I thought it would, but I hope you still like it! 
> 
> As always reviews/comments are encouraged!

Angry didn't seem to cover the fierce expression Sherlock was currently wearing on his face. You had to admit, the intensity in his steely blue eyes was enough to make you take a step back. You'd only ever seen that expression from the outside, never had it been aimed in your direction. Luckily for you, he tore his eyes from their place on your face and refocused on Inspector Lestrade. Part of you felt inclined to hang your head like a child who'd been scolded, but the predominant part of you refused to show any weakness in the presence of Lestrade. Even if you could practically feel the rage emanating off of Sherlock. 

"It was really quite obvious," 

Sherlock began, hands folded in either pocket of his black peacoat. It was rather incredible how he could go from shooting you a look that would frighten the Devil himself, to talking conversationally with Lestrade. It sort of pissed you off, you didn't deserve to be chided, and you sure as hell weren't sorry for doing your goddamn job. He could be as angry as he well pleased, but you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you feeling guilty. 

"The killers were the Twin Terrors, _as I'd already anticipated_. Out for revenge after the deceased reported their suspicious activity to Scotland Yard."

He sounded rather bored with the topic, you half expected him to yawn. Another thing that ticked you off. The two of you had nearly died, now covered in bruises that were already deep purple, bloodied and not to mention your broken arm and the limp in Sherlock's left side. Yet there he stood, sounding like he'd just won a game of checkers against a third grader. That all too familiar urge to clonk him in the back of the head with a brick washed over you, but you quickly let it fade away. There was no use in it anyhow...you cared about him too much to inflict any real physical harm on his pretty, arrogant head.

You couldn't remember exactly the moment you realized you felt something deeper for the Consulting Detective than simply being his partner. Maybe it was the time you watched him pluck absentmindedly at his violin, his face set in the most handsome expression of relaxation you'd ever seen...or maybe it was the instance when you'd mumbled something about his habit of leaving body parts in the fridge when something you'd said caused his mind to click and solve the case. He'd leapt from his chair and smiled so widely you thought he'd gone mad.

_"Eureka! Y/N, that's it! I could kiss you!"_

He'd taken your hands and spun you around, placing a kiss to the side of your mouth before rushing out the door without a word. That impeccably gorgeous smile on his face always found a way into your train of thought when you least expected it. The way his eyes crinkled, how every handsome wrinkle formed when he smiled. And those lips with their perfectly defined cupid's bow...you'd memorized every inch of that expression a thousand times, like a photograph. 

At first, the realization had annoyed you in the most vexing level possible. You couldn't care for that haughty, presumptuous, ingenious man...but the more you thought of it, the more you saw his brilliant traits. The longer you spent with him, the more the good man in him shone through the hard exterior. You fell deeper and deeper into his spell the longer you were with him, and no matter how you'd like to deny it, you loved him. You were in love with the highly functioning sociopath known as Sherlock Holmes. And there was no hope for you anymore. 

"Well, very good then," 

Lestrade said after a moment, he turned to look over the two of you briefly, giving a nod of his head. "I expect the both of you to take the time to heal, can't have you limping about London. Take at least a week, no negotiations." He shot you a smile, nodded once more, and turned on his heel to see to the rest of the case. Leaving you and Sherlock alone, and incredibly awkward. You decided you'd try to talk to the now stoic and silent Sherlock, try and ebb that rage. 

"Sherlock, I-" 

He cut you off, as he was apt to do. 

"I'm going back to the flat, I trust you can find your way there. I've done enough babysitting today." 

Excuse you? Did he really just say that to you? Oh no, you were not letting that slide, he wasn't about to call you a child and then waltz away. But by the time you'd had the mind to react, he was already hailing a cab, the cabbie coming to a stop seconds later. 

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare walk away from me!" 

You shouted, marching toward him with as brisk a pace as you could manage. He didn't even so much as glance back at you as he slid into the cab and closed the door, keeping his gaze forward. The cab lurched forward just as you were about to tear the door open, it drove away, leaving you standing in disbelief in the middle of the street. Outrage rippled through you, and it was potent enough to make your skin prickle. 

"Now who's the fucking child? Having a tantrum and stomping away! Ha!" 

You turned around to see the crew staring over at you after your outburst, and you flushed a rosy pink color. 

"Show's over."

You growled before turning and walking at a quick pace in the direction of 221B Baker Street. You figured walking would help get your irritation levels down before you had to face that ass of a partner.

_So? Why exactly was Sherlock so angry at you?_

Well, it all began with this ridiculous case of the Twin Terrors, a pair of mob sons with a terrible track record of crime. They were known for various forms of violence, torture and coercion of hundreds of people and corporations. They were dangerous, and going after them was a deadly duty. Naturally, Sherlock took on the case with little to no worry of the consequences. As per usual, he feared nothing because he was assured his intelligence out won every situation...which it nearly always did. But that didn't mean you weren't incredibly worried and unhappy with his seemingly reckless behavior. It wasn't uncommon for him to take on such devious enemies, and win...but something about this particular case set you on edge, something made you worried. You tried to voice your concern to Sherlock, but he dismissed you, as he always did. Assuring you that he had everything under control. He even went as far as to make you swear that you wouldn't get involved in the case. He was adamant about hearing you promise that no matter what, you would simply never get involved. And you were forced to agree...

_Until he was taken._

It was on the night of your birthday, and you'd gone out with some of guys from the Yard. You'd tried to convince Sherlock to take a break from the case and come with you, but as you'd expected, he refused. When he was set on something, it was near impossible to shift his attention. So, with a sigh, you left him to do what he did best, and spent the evening drinking your birthday away. 

When you came home, it was nearly 1:00am, and you were buzzed to say the least. You giggled all the way up the stairs to the flat, calling out Sherlock's name in a singsongy voice. You pushed the door open and announced, "Honey, I'm hooooome!" When you froze. 

Everything was out of place, chairs were knocked over, the prized possessions usually on the shelves of the living space were strewn across the room, papers and broken glass littered the carpet...and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. You had never sobered up quicker in your life than you had when you found the calling card of the Twins...two onyx King chess pieces, sitting side by side on the kitchen table. They liked to leave evidence of their chaos, and hell, it made you angry. 

Beside the pieces was a small note, which read, _'Get Scotland Yard involved, and you'll receive an early christmas gift: Sherlock's head.'_

You heard Sherlock's voice in the back of your mind, reminding you what he'd made you promise...not to get involved. There was no way you were keeping that promise, no way in hell. 

You'd wasted no time rummaging through Sherlock's notes, though there weren't many because he tended to keep all thoughts in his Mind Palace, there were a few things you could find. Several locations in his search history, a pair of names, and a single word scrawled on the desk in sharpie...

 _Hostile_. 

With that information in your pocket, and your pistol fully loaded at your hip, you set out to rescue your partner. Alone, with no one to help you, no backup, and no one to know where to find you.

* * *

 You'd searched all locations on the list but one, with nothing. You were beginning to think all of them were dead ends, dread filling you. What if you couldn't get there in time? What if they killed him before you got there? Or worse...what if they already had? You were forcing yourself not to panic as you made it to the final location...a giant warehouse on the outermost limits of London, it sure looked like the lair of a pair of psychopaths. There was a chainlink fence lining the facility, and as you got closer you could see the front entrance, guarded with two heavily armed guards in black suits. "Shit..." You mumbled, ducking down as low as you could. How were you supposed to get in? There had to be another entrance...there had to be.

You snuck around toward the back of the facility, passing several unsuspecting guards on your way, when you found it...your entrance. There was a small hole beneath the fence where some animal had dug and squeezed under. It wasn't quite big enough for you, but the ground was just soft enough for you to dig a bit deeper. You placed your pistol carefully beside you and dug your fingers into the soil, tearing it back and putting it aside as quietly as you could. You did this for ten minutes or so before it was deep enough for you to squeeze beneath it. You checked for guards, and found the area vacant for the time being. So, you first slid your pistol beneath it, and then you lowered onto your stomach and wriggled under the fence. It didn't take you long to get to the other side, so you sat up, now completely covered in dirt, and crouched low. You glanced around, grabbing your pistol, and looking frantically for anything to help you...and your eyes fell on the side of the warehouse, where in the darkness, you could see a glimmer of metallic...a ladder! You didn't waste a second before rushing to the ladder that was attached to the side of the building.

You were halfway up the ladder when you saw the light of a flashlight rounding the corner. "Shit, shit!" You whispered, moving quicker to get up the ladder before the flashlight found you. You were at the very top when the light reached the ladder, you catapulted yourself up onto the roof, rolling to get far from the edge. You watched in horror as the light shone all the way up the ladder, it paused, staying in place for what felt like years...before it turned back to the ground and began to move away. You let out a sigh of relief, before turning and inching farther on the roof. You could see the dim light coming from a skylight and hope filled you. You crawled on all fours to the window, taking a breath to steady yourself before you peered down through the window. What you saw rocked you to the core. 

Below you, bound to a chair was none other than Sherlock. His curly black hair was caked in sweat and blood, flat against the sides of his face. His left eye was swollen shut and purple, his lips cracked and bleeding down his chin and staining his blue button up. His head was lolled to one side, his hands tightly tied behind his back. You nearly let out a whimper at the sight, and fought the urge to call out to him. You watched as his head slowly lifted, as someone was approaching. Two identical figured stood before him, both in matching sweaters and slacks, their greasy blond hair parted the same way, and their sickly pale skin stained with blood...Sherlock's blood. You watched as they said something you couldn't hear, and then saw as Sherlock mumbled something back, a smirk forming on his oozing lips. The Twins frowned in unison and one of them backhanded Sherlock so violently that he coughed and spewed blood on the concrete floor. 

You watched in horror as the other twin pulled a black gun from his side and aimed it at Sherlock's head. You gasped and leaned closer on the window, searching frantically for a plan...and that was when you fell through the window. 

The glass gave way, shattering and sending you flying toward the ground. You landed with a rough thump, and there was a clearly audible snap and a sharp pain shot through you. You were certain that you'd broken your arm. "Y/n?" Came the crackly and low tone of Sherlock above you to your right. 

"What the bloody-?" One of the twin's began, but you gave no time for them to speak when you shot one of them in the thigh. He screamed and fell to the floor, soon followed by the other with a matching wound. You stood as quickly as you could with a dangling arm, holding a shaking pistol in your hand, pointed at the two writhing monsters on the floor. You slowly backed up and worked on the ties at Sherlock's hands, setting him free. He stood then, soundlessly.

"Pistol," He demanded calmly, holding out his hand for your gun. You complied, you were in no mind to shoot. He aimed at the only door in the room, and as it flew open, he shot every round in your gun, sending every guard to the ground, quicker than they could enter. "One, two, three, four, five...where is the sixth?" Sherlock muttered to himself, then a war like cry sounded from behind you and the final guard ran closer with his gun aimed. You gasped, but the sound was cut off when Sherlock threw the empty gun in his hand and hit the guard perfectly between the eyes, sending him backward, unconscious. 

Without a word, Sherlock paced to the corner, where his jacket was laid out. He pulled his phone from the pocket and shot Lestrade a message with the address, and turned to you with a look of intense something...you only recognized it as anger when Lestrade arrived with the whole of Scotland Yard...The two of you were patched up by the EMT's and all was well...sort of.

You could only imagine that he was angry with you because you broke your promise...but how could he stay so angry? You saved his life...he could be dead if you hadn't broken it...

* * *

When you finally arrived back to the flat, you entered to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, smoking. By then, your anger had subsided enough to maintain a calm voice when you spoke. 

"Thought you quit." 

He looked up at you, and his eyes narrowed. "I did." Was all he said. Then you gave a great heavy sigh, your patience quickly dwindling. 

"Look, so what, I broke you're silly promise, get over it." 

That seemed to light his irritation once more, that familiar gaze coming back to his eyes. He put his cigarette out and stood, his shoulders tense as he towered over you. "I told you not to get involved, and you did so anyway. I had everything completely under control and you waltzed into that war zone like a common idiot! Of all the moronic, unsophisticated and stupid people I've ever encountered-"

"Under control?! Sherlock you were about to be shot in the fucking head!" 

He grit his teeth. 

"I. Had. It. Under. Control. You nearly died because of your ignorance, Y/N!What did I say about keeping your ass out of trouble!? Why would you even-”

"Because I love you, Idiot! 

Silence. The quiet following your confession was so painful. You stared at Sherlock and he stared back, a look of confusion and utter shock written all over it. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was speechless. Your heart was beating so loudly in your chest that you could hear it. Whether it was from the heat of anger, or the fact that you'd just told him you loved him, you couldn't tell. But dammit, the silence was killing you. You just wanted him to say something! 

"Go on, then! Rub it in my face! Tell me how foolish love is and how much of a blooming idiot I am for trying to save you on the grounds of something as stupid as _love_! Go on, remind me how you don't have time to entertain the idea of love, shut me down, laugh in my face, anything! Just don't make me stand one more second in this goddam silence!"

You had your eyes closed as tightly as they could be, refusing to see the look on his face when he mocks you. But instead of laughter or chiding, he spoke gently, so gently you could hardly hear him. 

"Y/N..." 

You could hear his footsteps on the carpet and you opened your eyes to see him walking very close. Your eyes widened when he cupped your face in his slender hands, a look of confusion still on his face, but also filled with such a tenderness he almost looked like an alien. Like a creature from another world inhabiting Sherlock's body. Your eyes widened even larger as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, his tantalizing blue hues closing, black lashes sweeping those high cheekbones you so adored. The kiss was gentle, and somewhat hesitant, as if he were unsure if you would push him away. As if unsure if he was doing the right thing all together...after all, human nature was the thing he knew the least about. This form of interaction was as foreign to him as another planet.

Your chest filled with warmth and you let your own eyes flutter closed, melting against his frame. You wrapped your arms around his long neck and ran your fingers through the silky curls there. He seemed to relax a degree, taking this as a good sign. He used a deal more pressure in the kiss, causing you to sigh in bliss. How many times had you dreamt of this moment? Of his lips against yours, of his hands on you? You smiled into the kiss, pulling him closer and standing on your tiptoes to deepen it. He tasted like vanilla and nicotine, a delightfully pleasant combination. It seemed to last forever before he pulled away, looking down at you with eyes that spoke a thousand things all at once.

"Thank you,"

He said, and the words were strange coming from him. You couldn't remember ever hearing them before. 

"For risking your life for mine...though it was incredibly stupid, ill planned and could have gotten us both killed...I'm grateful."

In his own, twisted way, he was telling you he felt _something_. He couldn't say it was love, because he couldn't even begin to understand it. He still wasn't ready to face his emotions, wasn't ready to believe in them...but for now, he told you that whatever it was, it was there. And for you, that was a miracle. 

 

 

 

 

Want to request a reader insert of your own? Visit my requests story for details: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7706671


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